‘Ah—’ Priya was speechless. ‘What if I don’t get custody? Do you want us to live together as a married couple again if the baby is taken out of the equation?’
‘Of course,’ he said earnestly. ‘If that’s what you want.’
She paced, frowning. ‘You can’t use this horrible mistake as a way to paper over the broken trust.’
‘That’s not what this is.’
‘I—I don’t know.’ Her hand went to her chest. She felt the flutter of her heart banging against her breastbone. ‘I need some air,’ she said.
She slid open the glass door and stepped onto the balcony. Half-finished canvasses leaned against the rails. She brushed her fringe away from her eyes and looked towards the horizon. Nick followed her out into the darkness. Beyond the buildings and treetops Priya could see the ocean glittering in the moonlight and she wished for a moment that she could dive into it and swim away. India flashed through her mind, that faraway place she had never seen yet felt an intrinsic connection to. She wanted to go there someday. She wanted to take her son. She braced herself against the metal railing.
‘Priya,’ Nick said. ‘Imagine the social worker asks you who will help you raise this baby. You say, my husband, Nick, we’ve been together more than fifteen years.’
‘Nick, I appreciate what you’re offering, but this is huge. We’ve barely seen each other over the past fifteen months and now you want to pick up our marriage again like nothing happened.’
‘You know me better than anyone, the good and the bad.’ He spread his arms, as if presenting himself for judgment. ‘And I admit it’s convenient that what I can do to help you also helps me, but, the truth is, wanting to be with you again isn’t sneaky, or underhanded. I love you, Priya. I’ve always loved you.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘If a court is going to decide what’s best for the baby, you’ve got a better chance of winning if you’ve got a partner to help raise him, and I want to do that. Not just for your sake and not just for my sake, but for all of us. All three of us. I want us to be a family.’
Priya walked to the other end of the balcony, grateful for the ocean breeze. She recognised the logic in what he was saying, but her sensible self repeated a warning: he had broken her trust. He had gone to the Exeter to meet Rose. He had set up the meeting under their marital roof. And yet, she reasoned, after they broke up he hadn’t done anything she had expected. He hadn’t shacked up with Megan. And he wasn’t dating anyone else. The only person he was seeing was a therapist. Darsh had confirmed it.
‘Would you want us to be a couple again right away, like we were?’
‘Whatever you want. Whatever you’re comfortable with. I’m thinking about you and the baby.’
She nodded. The baby. Sadavir. Dyuti’s grandson. Viv’s nephew and Darsh’s second cousin. Priya silently stepped back into the comforting light of her flat.
‘I have to think about this.’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s such a big move.’
He put his mug on the bench beside her, his arm brushing her body and making the hairs on her own stand up. She could smell him. Soap and aftershave. It filled her with comforting memories.
‘I’ll let you get some sleep,’ he said, stooping to kiss her chastely on the cheek.
She walked him to the door. ‘Thanks again for all of your help.’
‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’
‘Okay,’ she nodded, and they embraced again.
She shut the door and went into the kitchen to rinse out their mugs. Lying on the drying rack was Nick’s wrench. She snatched it up and ran out the door.
‘Nick. Nick!’
He stopped and turned, his face aglow with hope. She looked at the wrench she was holding up like a torch. She opened her mouth and the word ‘okay’ burst out.
‘Okay?’ He bounded up the steps to her, taking them two at a time. ‘You’re sure? We’re going to try again?’ His hands were resting lightly on her hips.
She nodded. ‘We’ll take it slow. But yes, I think we should try again.’
She pressed herself against him, still a little shocked and a fraction reticent, as he put his arms around her. In the stillness, she felt like she could say what was on her mind. Her insides were charged with conflicting emotions.
‘I’m scared you’re going to grow bored with me again,’ she whispered.
He pulled away so he could look at her. ‘I was never bored,’ he said. ‘I felt like I’d failed you. You were so upset about not getting pregnant. I felt responsible. I needed you more. Not less.’
He nuzzled her neck. His words scoured away all of Priya’s anger. She needed to be held, and then, feeling the masculine solidity of his body, she needed more. Lust seized her. She drew his shirt free and pulled him back inside her flat. Understanding what she wanted, Nick unfastened her dress and tugged it down.
She remembered how, when he touched her, everything seemed all right. The text messages seemed inconsequential. Months of despair evaporated. Her love had always been guarded. But how much she missed him was tangible. It was the loss of the little everyday things that had stung: watching him build Sunday bacon breakfast sandwiches; opening a sack to show her a new treasure from a building site; keeping her warm with his body heat on winter mornings when the wind rattled the windows of their bedroom in the home he built for her. She missed that home.
‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I’ll do better.’
‘Me too,’ she replied.
They shuffled into the bedroom and tumbled onto Priya’s bed. And finally, after knowing him for fifteen years, being married to him for seven and separated for one, Priya Laghari surrendered to Nick Archer.
Thirty-nine
Colours blurred before Grace’s weary eyes. Grey, navy and indigo all became one. She reached into her wardrobe for a wool-blend twill skirt then withdrew her hand. Her life was spiralling so completely out of control that the few decisions she still had power over took on a new, weighty significance.
The sound of her babbling baby floated up the stairs, followed by Fiona’s coos and coaxing as she attempted to feed Sam stewed apples. They had been experimenting with solids, without much success. They could get a spoonful of puree into Sam’s mouth, but it would only stay there for a few seconds before he dribbled it back out again in a slow, sludgy stream. Dan had dedicated himself to creating several original baby food recipes before Grace heated up a big saucepan of apples in the hope that something sweeter would do the trick. She was just thinking that if Fiona had no luck with the apples she would try custard when the terrible reality of what was at stake seized her. She steadied herself against the wardrobe door and flicked through her hangers again, in search of a suitable outfit to wear to court.
She heard the clatter of plastic on stone—presumably the Peter Rabbit bowl being knocked from her mother’s hands—followed by her mother’s cry: ‘Oh, Sammy.’ On any other day the thought of her mischievous son would have made her smile. But today it upset and scared her. She stretched skyward until her back cracked and then focused once again on the task at hand. She had to do this for Sam.
Grace parted two coats and the solution appeared, pressed flat by the weight of her winter wear: a periwinkle blue silk dress she had worn at the christening for Rochelle’s third child, Daisy. The cinched waist and calf-length skirt would strike exactly the right chord with a judge raised in the era of single-income households. Grace slipped into the satiny garment. She added flat shoes and a cropped jacket and then appraised the effect in the mirror. Perfect. She looked like the valedictorian of Martha Stewart’s college for mothers. But it gave her no pleasure. It was like picking out her burial outfit.
‘Ready?’ Dan came into the bedroom.
‘Yes. Oh, I just had a thought,’ Grace said, turning back to their wardrobe. ‘Here.’ She held out a tie that closely matched the blue of her dress. ‘Put that on.’
‘Good thinking.’ He yanked off the red-striped Pierre Cardin he’d chosen that mo
rning. ‘We want to look united. Team Arden.’ The taut, wilful positivity of their IVF days had returned to his voice.
‘Let me fix that.’ Grace straightened the new tie. Her worried eyes were on the knot when Dan took her trembling hands in his.
‘We’re going to win this,’ Dan said. ‘He’s our son and he’s going to stay here with us where he belongs.’
‘How do you know that?’ Grace asked, desperate to believe.
‘Because he has to. He just has to.’
Beth had a car spot near her chambers, so she collected Grace and Dan in her black Land Rover and dropped them at the Family Court building on Goulburn Street, where the custody hearing was set down for five days.
‘It looks like a crematorium,’ said Grace.
Elliott was waiting in the lobby with his phone pressed to his ear. He looked as sharp as a blade in grey. Grace felt a small jolt of confidence and even managed a hopeful smile when he slid his phone into his pocket and greeted her and Dan before taking them into a windowless interview room.
‘They’re probably going to try again for the DNA test, so be prepared. We want to avoid that at all costs but it’s really up to the judge.’ He looked grave.
‘You don’t sound confident,’ said Grace.
Elliott grimaced. ‘I’d say it’s a fifty–fifty chance you’ll have to go through with it.’
‘Let’s hope not. We already know how that ends.’
‘I feel so powerless,’ Dan said.
‘You’re doing great,’ Elliott replied. ‘I like the tie and dress combo. Nice touch.’
‘Every little bit helps, right?’ said Grace.
Elliott put a hand on Grace’s arm and squeezed. ‘Are you ready?’ She and Dan nodded and stepped into the lobby just as a couple rushed in through the entrance behind a woman in a pantsuit with a silver cap of hair. Grace nearly collided with a petite Australian-Indian woman, whose shoulder bag flew up and smacked into Grace’s side. As the woman opened her mouth to apologise they locked eyes and her voice failed. Grace felt as if her breath was being sucked out of her.
‘Dan,’ Grace squeaked, reaching for her husband’s arm. ‘It’s her.’
A tall man in an ill-fitting blazer snaked his arm around the woman and swept her away before Grace could say anything else.
‘Talk about hit and run,’ said Dan.
‘It was bound to happen eventually,’ said Elliott. ‘Come on. We don’t want to keep Judge Cameron waiting.’
The courtroom had none of the pomp or grandeur Grace was expecting. It was a small, modern room with white panelled walls and a carpet made from tessellated red and maroon rectangles.
‘I expected it to be more foreboding,’ Dan said.
Grace took a seat and gazed across at the enemy camp where Priya was seated with her lawyer, studiously avoiding eye contact. Priya turned and spoke to another couple behind her, then tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, flashing blue metallic nail polish. Grace felt a twist of dislike. How tacky. And yet, the small woman had a quality that cured Grace’s hate. The howling hostility in her heart was arrested. Her mood shifted and her anger was replaced by a disconcerting curiosity. Grace shifted in her seat, disturbed. Trying to be discreet, she glanced up quickly at Priya again.
At the same time Priya snuck a look at Grace and their eyes met. Grace turned away, smarting like she’d been slapped. Her rival’s face was familiar. It was the eyes, and her nose and its relationship to the features around it. She’d gazed at it a million times, in Sam. An unexpected emotional alchemy was occurring. Grace’s hatred mutated into empathy. She felt the woman’s loss and pain. The full force of the tragedy of what had happened revealed itself to her, then smothered her. She grieved anew for her own lost biological baby, her own unfulfilled Petri with blonde pigtails, and Sam, who, one way or another, would be denied a loving parent and a part of himself.
‘She looks like him,’ she whispered to Dan. He nodded sombrely. ‘Who’s that man with her?’ she asked. ‘He can’t be the father.’
Priya’s companion was a solid man in an oversized jacket and RM Williams boots. Dan shrugged. ‘One of her lawyers?’
‘No, look how close they are. It must be a boyfriend. Did the statement of claim say anything about her living with a man?’ And just like that, the rage that had been tamed by Priya’s familiar features returned. ‘Who is this stranger who thinks he has the right to take our son?’
Three loud taps rang out and a hush fell over the room. A door opened.
‘Here we go,’ said Dan, rising to his feet.
Judge Diane Cameron entered the room, bowed and settled in her seat. As she regarded the assembly, her clerk read out the case details.
‘Priya Laghari versus Grace and Daniel Arden.’
Grace steeled herself. Every second was agony. There was some administrative nattering and the lawyers introduced themselves before the judge cleared her throat.
‘There is one matter I want to address before we get started,’ Judge Cameron said, sliding the arms of her glasses into her tuft of blonde curls. ‘It is critical the child at the centre of this dispute never comes across any reports that might suggest to him that his existence is a mistake. To ensure that never happens, he will be referred to from this point on as Baby S. This will also put us on more neutral footing as I believe there is some dispute as to what he should be named.’ Judge Cameron looked around the courtroom. She saw Grace and Dan, miserable and puffy-eyed, and Priya, determined to press forward. ‘Ms Forlani,’ Judge Cameron said, ‘are you ready to begin?’
Priya’s lawyer got to her feet. ‘Your Honour, before we begin our opening statements I’d like to be heard on the matter of the DNA test request. The letter we provided to the court written by Dan Arden indicates the couple at the very least had doubts about the child’s biological make-up. We think that is grounds enough to test the child. It’s non-invasive and the results would significantly alter the case.’
Dan squeezed Grace’s hand.
‘Hm.’ Judge Cameron tapped her index finger against her lip. ‘I find everything about this case extremely unsettling. And I don’t think much of this evidence. Where is the clinic in all of this? Why has there been no investigation?’
‘That is part of the reason we need the DNA test,’ Estelle said. ‘My client can’t take legal action against the clinic until she can prove an error was made.’
‘I see.’ Judge Cameron looked at the Ardens. ‘And I suppose, Mr Jones, your clients don’t wish to make any allegations against the clinic?’
‘No, Your Honour,’ Elliott said. ‘My clients were perfectly happy with the service provided by the Empona fertility clinic.’ He added as an afterthought: ‘They love their son. Very much.’
‘I suspected as much. Ms Forlani, if I were to order a paternity test, how long will it take?’
‘Five business days.’
‘Your Honour,’ Elliott interjected, ‘we strongly object to testing this baby’s DNA. My clients are his parents. Their names are on the birth certificate. All the plaintiff has is a couple of pieces of unverified paper. The printout of the clinic’s schedule that she claims is evidence of a mistake shows nothing and the letter doesn’t prove a thing. Ordering a DNA test on the basis of one letter and one table that could have been whipped up on Microsoft Word is extremely unorthodox.’
‘Yes, well, I’m sorry, Mr Jones, but everything about this case is extremely unorthodox … and extremely serious,’ the judge said. She paused to pinch the bridge of her nose, a pained expression on her face. ‘I do think we need to delve into this deeper, and a DNA test seems the best starting point. Based on the letter written by Daniel Arden and the visible difference between the child and his birth parents, I think there’s evidence to support the possibility that an error has been made by the clinic. Baby S will undergo a DNA test to determine who his biological parents are. Once we have the answer I can consider the matter of custody.’
‘Thank you, Your Honour,’
Ms Forlani said. Grace closed her eyes. Dan swore under his breath.
‘I’ll order that Baby S be taken for a swab test that will be compared against both Mr and Mrs Arden and Ms Laghari. I’ll adjourn the hearing until next Wednesday, which should give the lab ample time to analyse the sample. When we return we will know who Baby S’s biological parents are.’
Forty
When they returned to court the following Wednesday Priya kept her head down and her hands clasped tightly, as if she were holding the new knowledge in her hands, like a glowing, precious gem. The tests had come back. The baby was hers. Sadavir was her son. Their kinship was encoded in his cells, and along with it, familial traits and tastes were woven into his being. Her intolerance for coriander. Her widow’s peak. It was exciting to imagine that maybe he would have a talent for painting or a love of colour that they could share. One day she might find him, as a teenager, frowning over a sketchbook as he attempted to render an arm in a foreshortened perspective for a school assignment. Priya, watching over, would be able to gently guide his hand and show him how he could use cross-hatching to create shadows.
Perhaps he would be very particular about the colour of shirts she bought for him and insist on a specific shade of green for his bedsheets. She would take him into her office and show him her colour charts and paints, and his eyes would light up like pinwheels.
She squeezed her fists in silent exaltation. At last. At last. Her baby, her boy. It was proven he was hers. She tried not to let her excitement show on her face. Grace Arden was only a few metres away and she would soon learn what Priya and Estelle knew: the boy in her nursery was a biological stranger. This was a massive blow to the Ardens’ case.
Priya watched Grace take off her sunglasses and slip them into her shoulder bag then rub each eye with her thumb knuckle. Exhaustion was painted across her face in purple and grey. She had bags under her eyes and sallow skin. Up close her adversary looked different to Priya’s memory of the black-haired woman she’d seen on the Glebe porch. Her mind had contorted that person into a fairytale hag with sharp yellow teeth who steals children. In the flesh, Grace looked normal, aside from her weariness. Her black hair had been retouched and cut. Its shiny ends rested neatly on her shoulders. On her lapel she wore a teal ribbon for ovarian cancer support. Did this hint at some other tragic chapter, Priya wondered, or was Grace trying to score points with the judge? She rubbed her arms and felt a shiver of unease. Her stomach was full of crickets.
The Mothers Page 27